Angels of Mercy (edited version)
by Muse Nocturne
Summary: Mercy Valentine knows what it's like to feel forsaken by God, but one New Year's Eve a mysterious stranger, his sister, and their friend grant her compassion. Are these people her guardian angels sent from Heaven? And is she likewise theirs?
1. From Riches to Rags Mercy, The Girl

From Riches to Rags  
Mercy Valentine, The Girl  
  
Government gives nothing. It is not a merciful system run on love of people, but a system based on deceit and love of material gain. The poor remain impoverished, while the rich remain wealthy. There is no such thing as rags to riches, only the occasional riches to rags, and most often deserved, riches to rags. No, life is not a fairy tale and I shan't pamper your mind with twaddle, though many a narrator does. I've seen everything this world has to offer a woman. I want you to see my journey for yourself.  
  
In my childhood, I enjoyed luxurious things like scented baths, silk stockings, and shiny jewelry. My father was an English gentleman and my mother was his English lady. Our home was large, sitting near Buckingham Palace, our rooms were bright with light from many producers of new, and our furnishings were delightful, expensive and delicate little things one felt would break under their very weight. Our position in society was of good proportions, I suppose one might say in order to make it short and sweet. Being the only child of the family, I found it extremely difficult to understand a world other than the one I knew. All that I knew of the outside world, I knew from my parents. I was aware of a poorer class that decorated Mother's hats and polished Father's shoes, but in my feeble mind I did not think of them as anything different than myself.  
  
I basically grew up innocently immaculate and greatly guarded from reality. I never thought outside of the aristocratic circle, which had delimited me since birth. I could not see over the tall top hats of the gentlemen or under the fluffed gowns of their ladies. Life was unclear; so many things were unknown.  
  
Please do not get me wrong! Nay, I was not an ungrateful or stupid child, but I was of course, inexperienced, confused, and very much alone. I knew the way of life for any young lady growing up in a civil household dominated by severe gents and their equally pert wives; it was branded into my mind by the time I reached thirteen. To be good mannered and silent, to listen to my elders, and to keep my appearance prim and proper were my lot in life. There was never anything too difficult about saying nothing to my parents anyway. I did not truly know them as I knew my nanny, and I was certain they did not know me. And besides, it was easy just being beautiful; I watched my mother be so all of the time.  
  
But things changed for me as my coming of age crept closer and closer from the shadows of my life. When I was merely eighteen years of age, my father gave his consent to an unwanted marriage. I was to wed the son of his wealthiest and most prominent friend, whom, I might add, was a duke.  
  
The young man who asked for my hand was not the least bit striking in appearance, ugly actually, and I was indifferent to him practically all of my life. He had never seemed to take interest in me before, but we were married off nonetheless. It was my "duty to the family", urged my father. I would "grow to love him" said my mother. Unfortunately, I did not give it a second thought and my innocence was shattered by the blows of sin.  
  
I suffered in silence, behind closed doors, which I feared to open to the world. My husband grew ruthless, more so after the first month of our marriage. I began to feel isolated and deprived of God's light, like a wilting rose being kept in a dark room without water. My days were spent in deep obscurity and my nights were filled with overflowing crimson. I often thought of how simple life was back home, how my parents deceived me, how perhaps ending my life would end my pain, but I could not shove the dagger into my chest, I could not hang from the noose, nor could I drink the vile of eternal rest. I hardly had any strength left of my own to grant myself that mercy.  
  
I became weak, scrawny, and pallid with every obscene act that my husband did upon me. He endlessly defiled me, screwing my brains into spasms of insanity. He hit me constantly, throwing tantrums if I ever complained of his injustice toward me. He drank like a horse, he ate like a hog, and when he was not on top of me, he was underneath another. Purity as I knew it was a lost memory, a faded painting, and a paradise far from my wearied view. Life was a ceaseless and nauseating fire that burned deep between my bruised thighs. My heart sobbed salty tears, and the blood boiled in my veins. A cake was baking in my oven. I was pregnant at the age of nineteen.  
  
My family had no idea of my wretched husband's cruelty, and I could not bring myself forward to confess. Besides, even if I could have told them, they would have never believed their darling son-in-law was capable of hurting me both physically and mentally. Once I told my parents that I was with child, their eyes glittered with joy. Mother expressed her elation by buying a cradle and other baby things, while Father put money down for the child's schooling. Everything seemed to go well with my family, save for my husband; he was not very amused.  
  
I had meant to tell him of our expectancy the evening after my second doctor's appointment, but he found out before my arrival. He had bumped into the physician on his afternoon walk, and just as I entered the foyer of our house, I was up against the wall with my husband's hands closed around my neck, and one of his knees jabbing me in the abdomen. I felt that surely I was going to die, but he soon let go of my throat, slapped me across the face, and sent me to the floor in his heartless temper.  
  
  
  
He called me a whore, a cunt, a bitch. He called our unborn child a bastard and spit at the thought of its birth. I could not breathe; I felt his hatred eating away at my very entrails. He kicked me in the stomach and I let out a gasp for air. I perceived the bitterness of blood in my esophagus; I tasted the salt of tears on my quivering lips.  
  
A week later I went back to the doctor's. My baby was dead. I was crushed. From that day on, Mother gave me nasty looks and secretly accused me of killing it on purpose. Father said nothing; he was too busy complaining about the doctor's bills and the loss of money towards baby items. My spouse smiled upon me in disgusting triumph.  
  
"Oh, sly little devil" I thought, cursing in his name (I do not reveal his identity out of pure respect for myself. The name would only instigate more pain to my retelling of the past). That night, for the first time in my life, I let the devil enter my soul, willfully that is, and not in the form of flesh. I prepared a dish of roast beast with a side of potatoes and greens for our supper at home. A red wine from Bordeaux went well with the meal; it was a wine almost thick as blood, oozing with a taste that I knew my husband could not resist. He ate hungrily, engulfing his whole plate to put it bluntly, and he finished it off with seven glasses of the alcohol I had given him special. I smiled unusually content from my end of the table. I ate in peace.  
  
A little after nine o'clock PM, he began to feel an unsettling in his stomach and I led him to the sofa in his den. Within three hours of the lout's moaning and groaning with bowel pains, he laid stiff and cold, not breathing. I had taken his life by poisoning his drink. My crime went unknown for I told people that he merely had a heart attack. And the lot of them believed me! I did not have the heart to rain on their parade anyhow; doing so would have been rather selfish, I think.  
  
I was twenty when I left England. I pardoned myself with just enough money to survive for at least a year without a source of income. It seemed the perfect plan at the time, for Paris appeared to be much cleaner and nicer than London when I arrived there in 1880. Indeed I considered Paris to be a better place, for I knew that I would never have to see my god-awful family for the rest of my life, unless necessary, and I would never have to think of being caught for my wrong-doing. I wished to start over on a clean slate; I wanted to begin an entirely different life in the city of light.  
  
I lived in comfort for about seven months, until money became as scarce as to force me to move into a small one-room flat, which had only one window and unreliable heating, and introduced me to the landlord, Alain, who was one of the most perverse and awkward men I had ever encountered, my husband being the worst. In the wintry nights, the room was never warm enough; it always smelled of Jack Frost. In the summer it was never cool enough and always reeked of vile odors of life near the butcher-shop.  
  
My days reared on in dreary and lonesome swirls. I finally understood how it felt to go unemployed, starving, and hating all those refined souls that happened to pass me on the streets. I had very few friends, but if any at all, they were usually younger than I was; they were the urchins of the city. Many of those children that I found comfort in were like myself; they were alone, hungry, and desperate. By winter's end, many of them were dead though, due to pneumonia or malnutrition. Hearing of their deaths was always hard for me to bear, but tears never escaped from my ill heart. I felt that God had spared them from turning into tramps and sluts. To be honest, I was somewhat envious that they were able to die as immaculate as baby lambs, while I could never. But, after awhile, I did learn to accept that I could never die unsullied because of my fallen marriage and my murdering of my spouse. I felt like I had no one to pray to since I left my childhood; my belief in God had disappeared in the alleys of the night, and I figured that if there were such a thing as God, he would never condone me without more penance.  
  
I searched the city for work, first taking up a job as a seamstress, but being fired for lack of talent. Then I found a job at the tile and brick factory, but I was soon turned from there as well for lack of strength. I had no food, no heat, my rent was due, and I had hardly a sou to my name. I had just enough of nothing to sell myself for a franc or two.  
  
I became a prostitute and I was known about the streets as Monique, instead of Mercy. No one needed to know the real me anyhow; they only spent one night in my bed most of the time. It was not like we were to marry and raise a goddamn family in a cottage with a picket fence! Besides, Monique was a pretty and seductive name in my opinion. I heard somewhere that it meant 'wisdom', which made me laugh all the more. Who would've thought of a wise and cultured whore when only the sheets on her bed lingered with the scents of cultured men who sought pleasure that their wives could not give without the birth of another mouth to feed?  
  
My most frequent clients were of the higher class of society. They came to me especially for my looks: my fiery auburn hair, my milky-white skin, and my eyes like sapphires. I lured them in with sultry pouts in the pubs and innocent giggles from the streets. I didn't need to work for a pimp; I did well on my own. I was pretty enough to be seen in a twinkle of the eye, and I was to be had in no more than a heartbeat in the groin.  
  
My promiscuity took its toll though, for in no more than two years as a fallen woman, I had been pregnant twice, hardly surviving on my ration of two handfuls of bread and three cups of wine a day. The winter was extremely harsh in the gutter; there was never a time there where I felt full or happy with my life choices and myself. Indeed there was nothing to be proud about, and some nights I even dreamt of going back home to my mother and father, just to end my misery! Thrice, I had contracted pneumonia, and somehow, through pure misfortune, it seemed the wretched babe within me was much too tenacious to die. I was soon determined to believe its surviving to be my own fault. Because I wished it to die was one thing; that it did not pass was another. My retribution was obviously to see it live in my motherly embrace, to care for and grow to love it, then to have it pass away in order to grant me agony and desolation for the rest of my days.  
  
Months passed on, I became more hopeless, but as I reminisce, one night stands out among the rest. It was the night that changed my life forever. I had just returned home from a horrible brawl in the streets, my body ached with fatigue and hunger, and my countenance looked equally beastly. I had been caught between two men and acquired quite a bloody lip in my efforts to break free from their clutches. I had given myself to them both, but they tried to leave me in an alley, partially naked and penniless. I tried sweet- talking the men into a franc or two for dinner, but in the end I received only snow down my bloomers, mud in my face, and my hideously bloody kisser.  
  
The one-room flat I lived in was not any better than the windy Parisian streets. I tried to kindle myself a fire, but in vain and to no avail. The stupid thing just smoldered and smoked back into my already teary eyes. Eventually the room got so cold as to force me to lie in bed underneath all of my blankets and every scrap of clothing I owned. The covering was thick, but useless. Jack Frost still jumped into bed beside me, piercing my skin, causing my pulse to quicken, and my breath to thicken. My stomach grumbled with starvation while the baby added to my despair by continuously kicking at my ribcage; it grew like a painful bean-sprout in my languid womb.  
  
My unborn child worked against me to make me miserable in a cold sweat of shattered dreams. Whenever I ate, my child ate, yet in the end of it all, the baby benefited more than I did. It stole my resources without remorse, or any thought to it, but I could do nothing to prevent it from trying to stay alive. With the New Year just three hours away, I decided that although we were worthless to the world, I still had to find us proper shelter, warmth, and possibly even some food to ring in the coldest night of that already hateful year.  
  
The snow fell merrily upon the ground in crystalline flakes. The dampening weather powdered over my auburn hair, which was already mangled with ice and dirt from the dispute earlier. Seeing nothing but a blur ahead of me, I inhaled the cold air, wrapped my shawl around myself, and began my solitary journey in search of a friendly place of warmth. The frost nipped at my dirty face as I bounded forward; the wind caused tears to sting at the rims of my eyes. None of the shops around me were open. Everyone had closed early, eager to ring in the New Year with the ones that they loved. I loved no one. Cursing at the thought of their intimate elation, I trudged on.  
  
I hiked almost everywhere in town, but soon stopped to take a breather on l'Ave de l'Opéra. The coldness was burning my lungs, burning my thighs, and burning my arms. My shawl was a flimsy covering in the dark-outdoors, and my hands, bare, were frostbitten. I could not feel them wipe away the tears that accumulated at my eyes or the nasal mucus dripping from my nose, nor could they massage my stomach as the baby kicked and jolted about my insides. This certainly had to be worse than staying at home! Now I was practically killing at my own will!  
  
"Oi, have mercy for the unborn, Jesus Christ!" I wept bitterly, gazing toward the dark sky, while hope seemed to deteriorate in the evil obscurity all around me. Of course there was no God in my mind. I used the Lord's name, but only in vain.  
  
Only as I looked up from my sobbing did I gain a faint smile at the sight of the structure just yonder. The mammoth Empress was lit-up as if the sun was being held captive within. I had long since thought of the Palais Garnier as nothing but a building for the wealthy. It had always been so dreadfully unfeeling, so towering, and gaudy; yet in that desperate moment of my life, I only saw its radiance beckoning to me from every direction I dared to turn. What had I to lose in order to be granted the Opéra's most comforting pity? Absolutely nothing.  
  
People had long since gathered into the foyer and auditorium for the annual New Year's masque ball. I could see their costumes glittering with jewels and I could see their velvety masks smiling upon me in sentimental tidings. How much I longed to be a part of the festivities, how I longed to be elegantly dressed and adored by that particular crowd within the building. Without thinking of my own appearance among such godly creatures, I gathered my skirts high above my ankles and scampered down the lamp-lit street. My black leather boots beat against the cobblestone as I hurried. My dear heart thumped loudly in my throat and breast. I reached the main entrance completely breathless.  
  
The masqueraders! Oh, I could hear their laughing! I could hear their gay singing nigh as I pushed open the entrance door with impatience twitching in my face. I took a deep breath, absorbing the happiness about me, thirsting to dance and sing with the mysterious masked beings. Nay alas, just before I could cross the threshold, a strong hand grabbed me by the wrist and escorted me out onto the stone steps.  
  
"What's a pretty little lass like you doing trying to get into the Opéra without an invite?" I was turned on my heel and stood vis-à-vis with a tall and muscular masked-man dressed as an archbishop of some sort. His eyes twisted so crookedly upon me that they made me quiver. I stepped back and nearly fell down the steps, but caught myself just as the man began to laugh at me.  
  
"Please, Monsieur!" I begged suddenly. "Please help me. Just let me stand by the entrance here and warm myself from this bitter cold." I held up my hands in front of my face, thrusting them in his direction. "Look at my hands, Monsieur they are quite iced-over…stiff…frostbitten!"  
  
He leaned forward, looking at my face, his rancid breath overwhelming me with nausea. I pushed him away, and covered my mouth.  
  
"You must be quite mad! There's no place in the Opéra for a whore to gain her immoral profit." He then grabbed for my stomach, but I turned my back to him and hid my front from his view. "Nor is there place for her to release her bastard child! I know these to be your intentions! The men in this building are of high society; they don't want your dirty soul! Get out of here, you mangy SLUT!"  
  
At his cruel remarks, my eyes went wild in their sockets, but I had not a chance for vengeance, for he soon slammed the door back in my wretched face. I winced  
  
"Those men are the only people who can afford to sleep with a stranger!" I screamed with anger rising from beneath the ruins of my soul. I peered into the windows, squinting as splinters of snow clung to my lashes. I longed for that warmth, and that warmth alone. I longed for that world that I could not hold in my grasp; I wanted my childhood back. "Oh fuck, am I to die on these ridiculous Parisian streets on a night that so many others are celebrating? Where is MY new beginning? Where is MY new life? In no more than three hours it will be 1883! Can't I at least live until the years anew? It's so cold; I need to find a way to get in there if it is the last thing that I do…Oh, God.. I must rest."  
  
My head was pounding as I quickened down the stone slabs and to the back of the Opéra. I had seen the many entrances once before, for I had screwed someone in the darkness that shrouded those doors just 10 weeks past. I tried several doors, but without success. The wind began to pick up and snow began to fly at me, but I kept on searching. A rat scurried from behind one of the crates, causing my anxiety to worsen and my stomach to churn. I could perceive the music starting up from the auditorium; I could sense the warmth of the Opéra rushing underneath all the doors in my presence.  
  
"The music!" I wept hysterically, reaching out and feeling my way through the oblivion behind some large hoppers and a refuse heap of broken props and damp, ratty costumes. I did not give a care to where my feverish search would end; I was already familiar with the dirty chill of the outside world. In my desperation for inner comfort, I was blinded yet could have done almost anything; I could have even conquered the world and all of its untold evils just for a bit of heat.  
  
Finally, after a struggle with numerous other knobs, I found an unlocked door. It seemed almost intentionally hidden, as if it had not been used in years, but its being without lock signified that it had indeed been in use and quite well-known.  
  
At that moment in time, I did not find anything peculiar about the mysteriously unlocked door; my frailty prevented me from any sensibly intelligent thoughts. All I knew was that I actually had a chance to find warmth. Relief swept over my face as I stepped into a world much different than the one I was parting from. I wondered if I had entered some sort of secret dimension as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, but I was just as content to find my surroundings to be not of a new dimension, but of an underground world. I made my way down numerous winding stone-platforms until it all ended at a vast area of stone walls and floor.  
  
There was much darkness and I assumed, after moments of daft gawking, that I must have been in one of the cellars of the Opéra. I had heard once that it had about five cellars, how strange it was to hear of such a tale and then experience it for myself. It was moist but warmer than outside, quiet, and untouched, but that did not bother me nearly as much as one would expect. When the hopeless find a solitary place such as that, they are rejuvenated with just a tad of elation. To me, that dank cellar of cold stone was like a sanctuary for the living-dead. I knew almost immediately that no matter what the case, I, and my child-yet-to-be would be accepted.  
  
As I ventured deeper into that labyrinth of endless proportions, the sound of rushing water made me nearly jump out of my skin. There was a sort of eerie wave of green light lingering now on the granite stones around me. I rounded the bend smiling with the hopes of washing myself and having a drink before I should sleep. Indeed, I had heard correctly: there, just yonder, dwelled a sort of vast and glassy man-made reservoir. The water sparkled as if it lived and I knew from its crystal clarity, as well as its lack of vile odor, that it was definitely not of the sewage. It was merely the liquid that was employed in the operation of hydraulic stage machinery. Certainly it was clean and safe for the child I would eventually be cursed to bear, but also trustworthy for myself.  
  
I gave a large stride closer toward the lake, but stopped dead in my tracks as I saw the object before my very eyes. Just upon the surface there bobbed a small wooden boat, fastened to a rope, which clung to a jag of rock at the shore. It definitely struck me as being unusual but with my fatigue weighing me down, I hopped into the wooden entity and curled into a fetal position on its planked floor.  
  
"How unreal." I muttered, listening to the calm water's soothing flow, and how it beat against its stone barriers. Nothing in the world could have been like it! Once I had set foot in the boat, I had been comforted: comforted by the omnipresent silence, darkness, and above all, its seclusion from the real world.  
  
No longer had I dreams of cleansing myself, just a yearning to stay in that boat on the lake. The rocking of the boat was much too gentle and sweet miss, and soon, after I had sung a little tune to the melody of the lake and closed my eyes, I felt myself drift off into a deep sleep. 


	2. The Boat Maiden Nadir, The Persian

****

The Boat Maiden

Nadir, The Persian  
  
I am not a dramatic or romantic writer, only a recorder of events. In my youth I had not learned fancy writing, but I was privileged enough to learn the basics. Thus I shall make this account concise in the very sense of the word, although this story is not brief or simple whatsoever.  
  
As I reached the back of the Palais Garnier, I glanced at my pocket-watch with a furrowed brow. It was just past eleven; Erik had been expecting me since ten, and only Allah and I knew how disappointed he was going to be with me for causing him to wait on my behalf. After all, Erik always managed to find SOMETHING the matter with me that he could shun, as I so plainly snubbed his faults, of which he had plenty.  
  
I am not one to break my promises, but that evening it was so terribly easy to forget! He had invited his half-sister Yvette and me over for dinner the week of Christmas, a time of no importance to me, and a time in which I was convalescing from influenza. The engagement had merely slipped my boggy mind, just as my fever broke and my life returned to normal. The importance of my promise had dissipated as I grew healthy again; it dissipated like the awful tasting medicine that my physician had prescribed for me, sliding down my parched throat to my weakened stomach, only causing all intake of refreshments to travel up again and into the waste-basket at my bedside. I will say no more of that, but instead go on to an explanation of sorts as to whom Yvette truly is, in terms other than that of Erik's younger sister.  
  
_I met Yvette only a few weeks after Christine Daaé and the Vicomte de Chagny left Paris. It was quite a meeting of chance really. I was attending the opera one eve to see Le Nozze di Figaro and to visit with Erik. She had been roaming the corridor off of Box Five seemingly trying to get a glimpse of "the Opera Ghost" and "the Persian", as people so called us. As to why she wished to see ME though, I was not certain, but I nonetheless decided it was best to indulge the child. Thus I excused myself of Erik's moody company and went out to the gas-lit corridor, smiling at the young woman and bowing.  
  
"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle." I said kindly, taking her hand and kissing it. She gave me an awkward look and shook her hand from my lips, almost cringing it seemed. "How may I be of service to you?" She did not tremble, although fear I could decipher in her jade eyes. She just looked on in wonder, her mouth gaping, and her eyes twinkling. "Is there something the matter?" I asked her, after minutes of her scrutinizing, causing her to clear her throat and shake her head back into reality.  
_  
_"Why, yes actually." She answered in a strong and assuring voice, holding her fan out to touch my shoulder. "I am amazed to say that through long searching and yearning, I have at last found my brother."_

  
I gave her a puzzled look. "Ay, your brother? Are you in search of him, Mademoiselle?"  
  
She laughed dryly then, and my cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. "Oh, no Monsieur le Perse! He is found! Please forgive my impudence, but I insist that you have a visit with me in my box when you are able. It will not take long I deem, for I am a concise person and do not find pleasure in taking away the liberal time of those I speak to. Please say that you will have a care and see me, Monsieur. I am in dire need to speak with you -- something about your mysterious friend."  
  
_The young woman pointed through a doorway to the box right across from Erik's. She looked familiar somehow. Perhaps it was best I go. She said she had information on Erik! What? How absurd to say the least…thus I went, despite the fact that I did not find it wise to leave Erik to brood for too long by his lonesome. I went at intermission, the young Mademoiselle leading the way. I was warmly welcomed into the box by an older woman, Mademoiselle Perrault, the younger explained. I bowed and smiled asininely, until they both begged of me to sit down beside them and tell about myself. For awhile I put gentlemanliness on the back- burner and strictly gave both women what they asked, nothing more and nothing less.  
  
"What is your name, good Monsieur?" Mademoiselle Perrault questioned in a scratchy tone, looking upon me as if I was a Roman god, stone and mammoth, towering over her in splendor. Her eyes were kind, jade like the other's, yet the two woman were as different as life and death…you may title whichever the two as you please…_

The elder's skin was pasty as if she suffered from an eternal chill, whilst the younger, who was herself pale, had that absence in color to which one may attribute a lily's petal. The young mademoiselle had ebony hair in a braid to her waist, while the old-maid had orange and gray hair fashioned in a shocked, messy bun. Mademoiselle Perrault was frail and homely like a starving mouse, compared to the other woman who was slender in form, almost like a stealthy black cat, or much more like Erik--Graceful, deadly.   
  
_"I am Nadir, or as many Parisians call me, The Persian. How may I be of service to you, Mesdemoiselles?"  
  
"It is not a question of what YOU can do for us, but what we can do for you." The black-haired child replied, putting one of her femininely fragile hands on the one of mine that I had resting at my knee. I trembled slightly at her touch; it was warm and soft, much like my wife's so long ago.  
  
"I do not understand." I murmured in my quivering, much to the dismay of the younger and the confusion of Mlle. Perrault. "Nadir, I have heard so much about him and yourself these past years since I have come to Paris. I knew we would find you both here, if not anywhere else. You see…" She took a small photograph from her purse and handed it to me, "She is Marie Perrault, friend to my deceased mother, and I am Yvette Lesauvage…half-sister to the infamous Phantom of the Opera…Erik."  
  
I glanced down at the picture in my hand; it was so small in my grasp. I felt if I were to move I would crumple it in my palm. The woman appeared to be the younger mademoiselle, only she had not green eyes, but the perpetual blue like Erik's. She wore jet jewelry as well, denoting a loss of some sort that plagued her mind forever. I gulped down a lump in my throat and returned the photograph to the elder's cherishing hold. _

"Yvette is beautiful just as her mother had been, my dearest friend…but Erik…" Mademoiselle Perrault lowered her voice as if the ghost himself had been listening. "He resembles the demons of the night. I have heard well from of his whereabouts…but not until recently, after the story of that Daaé girl and her lover. Once the papers let such a tale unravel, I knew in my heart that Erik was here…thus I wrote to Yvette most immediately…so that she may see him for herself."  
  
Yvette put a hand on my shoulder then, and I squirmed in my seat, but smiled nonetheless. Soon thereafter I rose from my place beside the aging Mademoiselle Perrault and looked for the first time, deeper into the eyes of Erik's half-sister, the only woman other than my deceased wife, that I would for the rest of my life, cause my heart to pine for and love with passion.  
  
"You are Erik's sister?" I breathed stupidly, shaking her hand with vigor, which only made her frown.  
  
"Aren't you a genius, dear Nadir. Yes, I am his sister." Yvette responded sarcastically, smirking at my foolish inquiry, as if we had known one another all our lives.   
  
_So thus, I befriended Yvette, Erik's only living family, and the most loved of all my friends. I had found myself, at last, in Paris, and grew happier for the sake of it, just as Yvette had found her brother, and Erik had found his sister. We were all together quite a circle of friends, but only did Erik's sister bind that ring in place._  
  
The cold wind blew snow into my eyes, causing me to squint. It blew my cap off of my matted graying hair in an effort to take it from me for always. Several times, my hat did blow off, but every time I caught it and I again placed it back upon my head. The wind was cold, beating against my face and neck, causing my breath to be lost in the storm. My feet were cold and wet, my ears were red, and my hands had gone numb. When finally I felt my way to the secret passage at the back of the Opéra, I had been shivering as a leaf ready to fall from its branch in autumn, and hacking like a cat. Seeing past the flakes of snow on my lashes, I put my hand to the door, but then as I reached for the knob, I was surprised to find the door swing on its hinges. It had been tampered with. "Strange" I thought, entering through to the warm interior nevertheless.  
  
The eerie silence of a world so unspoiled gave me chills up and down my aging spine. The light of the lake reflected upon the stone floors and walls as I rounded the corner, blowing on my un-gloved hands to warm them. I stopped a moment about ten feet from the lake and stamped my feet to keep the blood flowing within, as well as shake the snow off of my boots, but as I did so, I heard a harsh hiss from behind me. I turned abruptly, my eyes wide with surprise; there was nothing there. I let my eyes delve deeper into the shadows, my breath hesitant with expectancy, and my heart beating fiercely in my weak chest, until I saw the tiny blue eyes watching me. A sandy-colored tail swung over a sandy-colored visage; Ayesha stood there, her back arched and her whiskers wild with agitation.  
  
I smiled upon the easily-startled creature and knelt down, extending my hand to her with gentleness. She advanced closer with curiosity, sniffed at my fingers for a moment, then put her head under my palm, and brushed herself over my caress in a heavy purr.  
  
"Does Erik know that you are out here?" I asked the pretty feline, lifting her into my arms, for she trusted me that much (what a bloody surprise: A cat just like its owner!). She licked my neck momentarily, purring still in a good-natured manner. Of course Erik had not a clue of her being out there! Ayesha was hardly ever to leave the house during the winter season. "Best be that we bring you back home." I told her, taking her with me toward the boat bobbing on the lake yonder.  
  
About ready to hop into the boat, I soon found that that would have been quite a grave mistake. Though the light was dim from my angle, I immediately perceived a bundle of rags lying on the planks of the wooden entity. I blinked my eyes several times before realizing that the bundle had a head of dark auburn hair and a face almost blue in tint. It was a young woman and she lay there in a fetal position.  
  
The first thoughts to enter my mind were "Where has she come from?" and "is she dead?"  
  
Putting the cat down into the boat, I steadied myself into it as well. Kneeling next to the gathering of tatters and long curly hair, I raised her hand and checked for a pulse at her wrist. She was dreadfully cold to the touch, but from what I could tell she was alive, if not on the verge of death. Taking the pole at hand and loosening the rope that kept the boat in place, I decided not to try and wake the girl, but to take her with me to Erik's underground abode, where we could there possibly revive her. 


	3. Concerning Compassion Yvette, The Sister

Concerning Compassion  
Yvette, the sister  
  
The door to Erik's humble abode was large, thick, and dark. I imagine such a door one would find upon a Medieval castle: Its metal hinges, rusting but still manageable, its wood somewhat splintering from decades of toil, and its brass handle wearing from the daily use of my lonely brother. Perhaps it is fair then, to say that Erik's subterranean home was his castle: where he was the king…ruthless and brooding…where his subjects were the rats and the spiders…where the blowing of the horns was his own fault…where he once held his princess from true love…where a curse ate away at his soul…Yes, Erik was the king of underground obscurity. 

I had been watching the door for many seconds after first perceiving the hurried shuffling of footsteps on the corridor stones. My heart sank in my breast as I looked at the mantle clock; it was 11:30 and Erik had not yet returned from the roof. I had not bothered going along with him, for I felt it was my duty to remain home and let my poor brother alone to his solitude. Maybe the king was returning home after all, however…from his long journey to the tower…where the miserable birds slept the night away, where the bats hid in shadow during the day, where Erik forever tortured himself through thoughts and fallen hopes.   
  
The door...that damned creepy entrance-door creaked on its hinges and I twisted my eyes towards it with a quickness that I'd seldom used before. I was unusually jumpy, yes indeed, anxious for my brother's return, but also for the New Year to wash away old sins and dreams that I never fulfilled, things that wine could not dissolve. Sadly, Erik did not enter. Damn him! He would get no greeting from me! I crossed my arms and pursed my lips together as the cat scurried into the house, scampered over to her chair near the hearth, and began cleaning herself as if without a care or qualm. I wished I could be calm like Ayesha; she did not know my worry…she did not know Erik's temper as I did, for he never went uneasy with his precious cat nearby. Ayesha did not understand the way in which my brother could react upon his sorrow on a night that most likely caused him much pain and reflection to days gone by…  
  
"Stupid Christine" I often said to myself, mostly after seeing all the anguish in Erik's dark eyes and tortured movements whenever her name dared escape from one's clumsy lips.  
  
"Such a horrid accusation!" He would wail in return and go of to his room to pine for hours in deep obscurity. Thus was his way. Not even I dared to speak the name of his beloved without caution…sometimes it was just not worth it, facing his foul mood.  
  
"Erik.... Erik, are you here?" A familiar voice echoed from the doorway. Nadir stepped into the room, a bundle of dirty rags in his arms. Beads of cold sweat perspired from a concerned brow and his eyes glanced from corner to corner of the chamber. He looked frantic, sickly even, half-whining Erik's name until I rose from the sofa to make my presence known. His mouth seemed to drop open upon seeing me, either from surprise or pure relief I could not tell, for he advanced into the light in a swift manner that could have easily denoted either.  
  
"He's upstairs." I informed the Persian, but frowned as I pointed to his load. "What's that?"  
  
He frowned as well, his face growing weary with concern, his tan skin going green, and his eyes tearing. "It's a woman..." He explained, practically out of breath. "I found her in the boat...She's dreadfully frozen. I dare say, she's barely alive for that matter."

I put a hand on Nadir's shoulder, hoping it would calm his trembling, but alas it only made him worse. 

"We must get Erik down here, Yvette. He'll know what more to do with the destitute creature, will he not?"  
  
"Yes, he will." I replied. "Indeed he will know what to do. Lay her down on the couch and I'll go and fetch him."  
  
I watched Nadir for a moment; I watched him rest the petite woman onto the cushions of the sofa, oh so gently, softly, intently. I stepped forward for a closer view of the stranger; how horrible…the appearance of her. Auburn hair, caked with mud, beads of water frozen strand upon strand, her left hand and its fingers tangled in the mess. Bluish skin, not scrubbed, dried blood around a partially opened mouth. A flimsy, ragged shawl of deep gray, around the woman's shoulders. A soiled dress and petticoats, dark green, ripped at the hem. Bloomers and stockings, once crème-colored, now brown with water-spots and mud-stains, her leather heeled boots, black and muddy, the material cracking: hardly a decent pair of shoes to say the least. Her right hand resting upon a bulge of stomach. Poor Nadir, he seemed so worried, so fatherly to the frozen body that he had found. 

Without a mere word from my lips, I turned on my heel with an aching in my heart, went out through the door, and took the shortcut to the roof.  
  
***  
  
Erik stood there filling his lungs with cold wintry air as I halted at the last step leading to the rooftop. I remained at the door for a moment, trying to see if he could perceive me without introduction, but due to his heaving sighs and the wind billowing at his cape, causing a swishing sound to swell in our ears, he had not the faintest idea of my presence. I knew quite well he was lost in contemplation again…thinking of Mother, thinking of Persia, thinking of Christine Daaé, considering falling to his death. He often went to the roof to imagine such things, I knew it was so, even if he had for many time and again responded "for the love of the Parisian streets/for the adoration of the twinkling stars/for the refreshing outdoor air/for the enjoyment of solitude/to get away from you".  
  
"Erik." I called out over the breeze, flakes of snow entering my mouth and pelting upon my now shivering body. He turned abruptly at the sound of my voice, but with glazed eyes and an uninviting formation of his deformed lips.  
  
"Yvette? What are you doing up here child?" He finally asked me, taking my hand in his. I spit a strand of hair from my mouth and quickly pulled away from his freezing touch with stubbornness.  
  
"Don't call me child." I said automatically, causing him to nod in apology as he moved closer to read my face.  
  
"You seem troubled..." He looked upon me as if waiting for answers then, as to why I even dared break him from his suicidal thoughts, no doubt.  
  
"Nadir's here. He found a girl near the lake. She's barely alive. I think you should take a look at her." I announced all at once, obviously catching my older brother by surprise.  
  
"What?" He blinked his eyes with confusion. I shrugged my shoulders.  
  
"Nadir found a girl sleeping in the boat."  
  
"The boat on the lake? My lake?"  
  
"Yes, well no…the Opéra's lake." I rolled my eyes at Erik's use of possessive language, but forgave him his fault, snubbing it away with little importance. "And," I continued, "he's downstairs awaiting your arrival."  
  
"A girl?"

"Yes. Very good. A girl. A woman. A female. Entity. Boat. Water. Lake." 

He gave me a stern look and I smiled somewhat. "Enough." He responded. "Come along then." And he took a few steps into the interior of the Opéra. After a brief silence, he rotated again, somewhat concerned that I had not answered him with more sarcasm, and somewhat in order to make sure I was following his lead. Indeed I was, and I flashed him a smile as he looked back. 

But…Something churned in my stomach and made me question if the year would honestly be better. Erik's depression, the new foundling, the Opéra's new production of "Faust". Were the demons of old returning to take away my only living relative to the fire's below? Were the angels of the new year arriving to hearken a new beginning? Something inside me told me that everything was going to be wonderful, but even then I did not trust myself: for I only hoped that it was the truth, and NOT Erik's dinner feast ready to purge from my throat for a little haunt.  
  
***

After sneaking through trap-door and secret passageway, Erik and I finally entered his underground dwellings. The chill of the outside world and the trek back home had flushed our cheeks, and for me, labored breathing, but my brother seemed not at all phased. He did not heave sighs of relief once we enclosed ourselves in the main room, nor did he wipe perspiration from his forehead (underneath the mask) as I had. Instead, he gracefully advanced closer to the sofa before the hearth, seemingly ready to get down to work. Nadir now knelt beside the young woman, holding one of her ashen hands sandwiched between his tan palms. I circled like a vulture, standing at the end of the couch, and peering down again at the girl's grimy face. Nothing had changed. There was no other hue to signify heat. Everything once more seemed miserable. Nadir looked pitiful, the girl looked dead, and Erik… I watched him wrap his cloak around the back of a chair and carelessly throw his fedora onto his escritoire.  
  
There was a sort of dull silence; the only sounds were those caused by all of our hearts pounding and the crackling of the orange fire. The fire danced like a gypsy's skirts over the hot charring logs and briefly, I found myself wondering if Erik had seen a similar apparition while he traveled with Javert and the gypsies (he seldom spoke of such things). Nadir remained kneeling at the stray's side, as would a faithful hound to his sick and dying master. I felt tears coming to my eyes once he finally glanced up at us and rose to his feet, letting the girl's hand fall gently against the cushions.  
  
"This woman here...I found her sleeping in your boat, Erik. I do believe that she is unwell." Confessed the Persian with sorrow contouring his kind face. "I've checked her pulse and she is alive, but I fear she may very well be in greener pastures rather soon."  
  
I crossed my arms and watched my brother in a close and thoughtful air. He stopped in front of the couch, knelt down, and put one of his hands to the maiden's forehead. Giving Nadir and I a fleeting look, worry suddenly etched in Erik's shadowy orbs. Something had to have been seriously wrong.

"Please, could one of you go and get blankets from my room and a warm cloth for her head?" He inquired, looking specifically at me. "We must give her warmth. I believe she's cold outside but burning within. Perhaps a fever...no, no, get a cold cloth."  
  
"I've got it." I answered hurrying into Erik's room, wondering why I was helping. Moments later though, I emerged with a blanket and the cold washcloth. I handed my brother these things and he thanked me with a great but pensive smile.  
  
Erik gently placed the cloth on the girl's forehead before putting the blankets over her legs. Unfortunately, his face remained grave and he looked up once more with a slight frown.  
  
"She's soaked to the bone...Yvette, could you help me with this damn contraption?" He cried most immediately while adding, "She must breathe."  
  
"What?" I asked with confusion.  
  
"The corset. Could you somehow loosen it?"  
  
I smiled a bit as his left cheek glowed a bit scarlet in the light. "I can, Erik." I answered and moved over to the girl, pushing the two men out of my way. Kneeling down I could not help but demand some help. "Turn her on her side."  
  
Erik looked on with hesitation but obeyed my request without a word. Nadir backed away towards a chair beside the fireplace. I rolled my eyes at their actions, but alas felt somewhat dominant by causing them such embarrassment. I just did not understand it. Nothing should have made them uneasy in my mind, but then again, I knew they would react like children. I loved surprising men; it was a merry little game of mine…especially when concerning Erik and Nadir.  
  
Unbuttoning the back of her dress, I skillfully loosened the corset enough so that she could breathe easy. "I've always hated those things." I said as I stood up with a grin on my lips.

Erik again looked down at the bundle of rags and dirty red hair upon his sofa. _Nothing_ had happened. I noticed him shudder, most likely thinking "What is this, this hideous thing, with blue-tinted skin, dirt, and blood? What is this thing which Nadir has so foolishly brought to my home with his impulsive gentle nature?" I could see that my brother could not decipher what he felt for this predicament. He soon just stood there, arms at his sides, mouth closed, and eyes twinkling with questioning. 

"Are you sure she is alive?" I peered curiously at the bundle once more, not sure what to make of it. 

Nadir gulped down a lump in his throat. "I felt a small pulse before I brought her inside....I don't know how she goes now...but…" He shrugged his shoulders and looked away sadly, for his reply did not seem to have much worth to the master of the house.

"I'd like to know how she got _down_ here. It's damn near impossible to stumble upon this place by accident." I said dryly, changing the subject. "I would barely be able to find it with a _guide_."

I caught a glimpse of Erik beaming almost proudly at my remark, but then another eye-full of Nadir scowling at my brother's smugness. Erik merely growled in return.

"Boys…"

"Well there are many ways in which one may come across my lake in their travels through the cellars…" Erik snarled, directing his anger toward Nadir. "Just look at Daroga, for example. The damned man found his way down here years ago: many times -- not invited. And, the cur _still_ finds his way all on his own -- when he's not invited…" he paused, grimacing. "…yet when he _is _invited, he seems to get lost, for then only is he tardy."

I rolled my eyes. I could be only certain that the bickering would soon begin, thus I cleared my throat and uttered, _Erik, _and immediately got a hold on my brother's attention. 

Erik glanced at me and gestured smartly, "Yes, my _dear_?"

"Why don't we put this poor creature in the Louis Philippe room by another warm fire while we discuss what to do." I answered wryly. "After she is settled, you can be as sarcastic as your little black heart desires."

I had won…or _had_ I?

"_Oh, of course…_" He replied, _sarcastically_ ebullient, but in his lethal, hypnotizing voice. "Follow me…dear…old…fat…Daroga…asinine Daroga…come along…" The insults seemed to roll off of Erik's tongue like silk. He twisted those words so playfully on his lips as Nadir lifted the girl in his arms, that I noticed the Persian himself, visibly trembling, somewhat in fear, like one whom crosses a poisonous snake and can find no escape from its gleaming, hungry, eyes. 

Nadir followed Erik to the Louis Philippe room, as if he had himself turned into the snake and Erik its charmer. Damn Erik…he always found some way to appear more animalistic…cat, monkey, dog, snake…I sighed and shook my head, curling into a ball on the couch while the men carried the girl away.

After laying the poor soul upon the bed and covering her, both Nadir and Erik returned once more to the main room. They did not look at each other, nor at me. Erik merely closed the door behind himself, whilst Nadir sat down next to me, retrieving a newspaper from the coffee table in order to hide his face. 

"Erik, my love, what ever is the matter?" I asked in a mocking tone, smirking at my brother.

Erik pointed a finger at Nadir, before yanking the paper from his hands, crumpling it, and throwing it into the fireplace. "He was late! Late for our party."

"And what a party it has been…"

"Now the food is cold…I said to be here on time…"

"Well so is that poor young woman we've hid away in the Louis Philippe room, Erik…cold, that is." Nadir replied gently, frowning and sitting up, clasping his hands together and resting them on his belly.

I picked up a book from the armchair to my left and flipped through it, somewhat bored, which only caused my brother to rolls his eyes and plop down in his own armchair nearest Nadir, his long legs out, knees nearly touching the table. 

"Well…" Erik twiddled his thumbs and mumbled "You started it with your tardiness…" beginning to look around the room.

"Erik, you are like a child." I announced. "Stop acting so foolish. Let us NOT forget the girl in the other room, mind you. What do we do when, or if, she wakes up?"

"Finally…someone with some sense…" Nadir said, glaring at Erik, but then smiling at me. "Yes…I brought her here because I felt one of you would have a solution…for I have none. It was enough carrying her whilst trying to balance upon that narrow corridor."

"Wish you had fallen in the lake…" my brother muttered, only loud enough for my perked ears to hear. 

"Oh, Erik...please remove the rabid badger from your arse and try to use your infamous intelligence to figure out what on earth we can possibly do!" I saucily remarked, catching him off-guard. He growled somewhat, but relaxed after awhile, giving in to the matter at hand with a smirk and a gleam of his eyes toward the 'compliment' aspect of my words. Only Erik, I swear it, could ever find something appealing in a _rabid arse badger _and _infamous _intelligence…

"Well, my intelligence does not matter this time, for there is no murder or mayhem involved -- none that we yet know of, that is."

"Thus, my dear brother, you are useless when it comes to matters of humanitarianism?"

"I was never taught compassion...surely you two may come up with a solution then." He answered me, sitting back and grinning to himself, taking nothing seriously for it did not yet affect him. 

Nadir grimaced at Erik, standing up and walking over to the mantle, beginning to trace some sort of design in its dusty surface. "Erik, this is no time for fun and games. A woman's life may be at stake here. Please refrain from sarcasm and try to help the cause, not hinder it." He looked to me to encourage aid.

"I'm with him." I said, pointing at Nadir. That was all the help he was going to get…after all, Erik was angry with him, not me. 

The Persian rolled his eyes at my sorry excuse for support. 

The Phantom glanced at both of us, as if in pity for our lack of spirit to get him moving. "Well then, if it must be...what do either of you suggest we do? We can't just keep her locked in their forever. Someone must try and speak to her once she wakes…" Erik was becoming serious now, crossing his arms. "No doubt she will...NO doubt...the poor wretch will live forever if there's help from the upper-class involved."

"I suppose it is I who should speak to her. And do not judge her Erik...you do not know who she is." I announced finally, glad to see my brother coming to terms with his adult-hood--whether he liked to, or not, but a little annoyed at his cruel remark.

"Do not speak to me of judging the unknown…"He mumbled moodily, crossing his arms again and reclining deeper into his chair.

"Touchy…" I murmured, crossing my arms as well, looking into the fire.

Nadir cleared his throat. Before anything more could be uttered from either our lips, our Persian friend spoke up. "Well, it's settled then. Yvette will be the one to speak to the girl first! Very good…" But he fingered the mantle again. "Although it would not hurt if you examined the poor creature first, Erik…"

" I can see it now. The girl wakes up and finds some masked man prodding her exposed body." I then mocked in my usual nature. "What scandal!" 

Nadir chuckled and blushed. Erik rolled his eyes and groaned. I simply shrugged and smiled.


	4. Sleeping Beauty Erik, The Phantom

Sleeping Beauty Erik, The Phantom After a short time came the moment in which Nadir eventually started for his flat and Yvette fell asleep on the sofa. The house seemed empty, as if a grave-robber had stolen the contents of the casket's dank insides. No valuables remained there, save for the decaying body of the dead one's corpse, but similarly, only I stood -- and resolute. With Daroga left the clearing of an ill-parched throat, the voice of a friend in polite conversation, and the whistling of a congested nose. With my sister's slumber left the sweet aroma of perfume in every corner, the soft swishing of her gown against the stone floor, and the slight tap of her booted footfall. The mantle-clock sounded 1 AM: I had noticed at last, that it was the New Year. Before my recognition of 1883, my head had been in the clouds, or rather, my thoughts had been hazy. I blamed it on the wind chill on the roof, for such a thing could never utter an opinion of my falsehood. As if I had only been dreaming in the wake of my company, it seemed to me like I had awaken -- awaken from the nightmare of the evening -- only to stare vis-à -vis once more with the monster. The sharp and jagged teeth of the demon tore into my chest and pulled at my heartstrings. Pangs of guilt, I wonder? Had my reaction toward Nadir's foundling alerted my conscience? Had my newfound loneliness clasped hands with the yearning to care for another, weaker soul? Whatever had compelled my thoughts to sway to the Louis Philippe room, was and still is, beyond my vast comprehension. I soon found myself drawn to the door of the adjoining chamber. My hands, once clammy, were now wet with perspiration as I caressed the cherry-wood of that entity which separated me from that which I desired to see. I pressed my left ear to the door, leaning in to hear only the sound of the crackling fire. My heart sunk and began to flutter in my stomach, my brain commenced to pulsate in my skull, I found myself receiving goose-flesh, and from my throat arose a sob. Without anymore hesitation, I clutched the doorknob in my sweating, sticky fingers, and pushed my way through, to the other side; into the Louis Philippe room. All had gone shadowy since last I approached my "guest" chamber. The flames of both the fireplace and candleholders had diminished ever closer to their cores, ember and wick. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dark interior, for not only had the main room been well-heated from a tended fire, but the candelabras had not yet used their fat so hungrily. After adding some paper to the fire then, I moved along gingerly, to the bed, in fear of what I may find. The girl had finally moved: she no longer lay on her side, but upon her back. Her knees were in the air, the blankets and her dress hiked up over her thighs, revealing her bloomers. Her hands were over her head, arms resting upon the pillow of her red, snarled tresses. No longer tight around her torso, her corset was nearly rising from her body, exposing a lace undershirt of sorts, barely covering her lush and firm breasts. My breath caught in my throat as I looked upon her. She was a mess, both in unseemliness and propriety. I could only feel aroused by the sight of the woman, after all, just as any male would confess, such devilry is sometimes much more appetizing than instinctively virginal sweetness. My manhood hardened and tightened my trousers. Still closer I advanced upon the sleeping beauty. I was being pushed forward by a force that made me feel both low and high, for only as my eyes intensely searched every contour of her body with pleasure, had I seen the small swell of her belly. I was not the only suffering, through manly urges. She was not the only suffering, through feverish dreams. We were not the only ones suffering, through our own sicknesses. No, we were not alone -- the woman was with child. "Oh Lord.Oh damn me." I whimpered in vain, falling to my knees at the bedside, putting my heavy head in my awaiting hands. And I sobbed -- I wept bitterly -- in shock and disgrace. I do not recall how long I had stood upon my knees with the weight of shame upon my shoulders, nor do I recall the way in which I had found enough strength to, despite lack of decorum, cleanse the female's body until it shown flush in hue and free of any outward grime. In fact, I was much too shaken up, if not a little wild with guilt, to even care. Later, I pulled an armchair nearer the bed and watched over the creature, my chin resting in my hand and my eyes glazed over. I was lost in my mind. I was alone in a swirl of tortured reflection. Thus I utilized my time in the Louis Philippe room, until at last, I too dozed off into another world, where swarming throughout the liquid in my brain, feverish and disrespectful dreams did reside. 


End file.
